


Hayloft Fantasies

by RussianWitch



Series: Kinktober2018 [20]
Category: Justice League (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 07:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: not betaed





	Hayloft Fantasies

**Author's Note:**

> not betaed

Bruce pushes him back onto the hood of the car by the throat when Clark tries to wiggle out of his grasp.

As much as he wants to open up and let Bruce do whatever he wants, Alfred is in the house somewhere and Clark can't—

"Bruce—can't we move to the bedroom?" He shudders as Bruce's hands slip under his shirt caressing him with a ticklish touch.

"I like it here," Bruce mumbles against his throat, shoving a leg between Clark's.

"But—," the rest of his protest is swallowed in a filthy kiss.

"Haven't you made out with a girl in the hayloft of your parent's barn or something?" Bruce husks, tugging at Clark's earlobe with his teeth.

"I was a little preoccupied with figuring out what was happening to me, to talk girls into making out with me. Besides, the hayloft is—"

"Shame, I can imagine you there, dungerees and all—," Clark snorts, slapping Bruce's shoulder.

"Dungarees, really?" He laughs in Bruce's face, his laughter dying when Bruce's fingers make short work of his trouser fastenings.

"Shut up, farm boy!" He growls against Clark's throat, arching into Clark's hand when he cups the back of his head pulling him up for a kiss.

"Dungarees, with nothing underneath," Bruce purrs against Clark's laughing mouth, "turning hay  or whatever the hell people do in the hayloft."

Bruce spreads Clark's wider, grinding his crotch against his ass, ignoring the way Clark's body shakes with suppressed laughter.

"Taking a break, because you're hot and sweaty because your dick is rock hard from rubbing against the rough fabric, from getting tickled by the drops of sweat running down your body." The laughter leaves Clark as he remembers being a teenager assaulted from all sides by hormones and unexplainable abilities, feeling on edge all of the time.

"Unhooking the dungarees, pushing them down so you can run your hands over your body. Leaning back against the bale of straw, dungarees around your ankles, fucking your own hands." Bruce continues, working his hand between Clark's legs to tease along his perineum towards Clark's asshole.

"The world disappearing around, nothing left but the feel of your hands and the prickling of straw against your back," Bruce says, pressing his dry finger against Clark's asshole.

"You don't even hear the footsteps until a shadow falls over you," Clark whimpers forcing his muscles to relax around the intrusion.

"Bruce—," Clark gasps, arching into the rough intrusion.

"A man in a suit visiting from the bank, looking for your parents who are busy in the backfield, you can feel his eyes all over you."

A second finger pushes in, makes Clark whimper and close his eyes.

He can see himself in the old hayloft, half sprawled against the bales with Bruce in a three-piece suit towering over him with shiny shoes and a razor smile.

"He kneels over you, caresses your throat and pinching your pretty tits until you are squirming in his grasp and leaking all over yourself."

Clark tears Bruce's belt and trousers, freeing his dick and guiding it to his ass.

"Eager aren't we?" Bruce teases, spitting into his hand and lubing himself up with his spit.

"Just keep taking!" Clark demands, gasping as Bruce fucks into him.

Bruce laughs, biting at Clark's throat.

"He turns you over the bale, the straw stabbing and scratching at your skin as he makes you hold your ass cheeks open so he can look at your pretty little hole," Bruce says, "he spits, once or twice, as you bury your face in your arm in embarrassment, then presses—," he pulls out until only the tip of his dick is still in Clark's ass," right—," pushing back in roughly, "in!"

He sets a punishing rhythm, forcing Clark to brace against the hood of the car to keep from slipping.

"You can feel the wool of his suit against the bare skin of your ass. He grinds into you, so your dripping dick is scraped raw on the straw telling you how lucky he is to have found such a slutty little fuck pig ripe for the taking."

"God! Bruce!" Clark moans, Bruce's words painting vivid images behind his eyelids.

"He tells you to squeal like the pig that you are, pressing you into the straw, slaps your ass when you don't obey fast enough," Bruce wraps his hand around Clark's dick, jerking him off lazily as he grinds into him. "After you do, he pulls out, leaves you so empty you want to cry and beg him not to leave you hanging," he takes his hand away leaving Clark's dick twitching between them, and Clark feels metal crumble under his hands.

"He makes you turn onto your back, so he can see exactly how much of a pig you are, grabs the dungarees still tangled around your ankles, and bends you in half hooking them behind your head. Folded in half, you can barely breathe, but you don't care, not once he pushes back. He uses your tight ass to get himself off; his eyes closed like you are just a toy for him to use." Bruce lays himself over Clark, trapping Clark's dick between them and giving Clark the friction he wants. "He doesn't even come in you, pulls out instead and finishes on your face and chest, telling you to let your parents know he'd be by again tomorrow as he rights his suit before walking away, leaving you a desperate mess to finish yourself off as best you can." Bruce twists his hips just right, and Clark comes with a curse tangled in memories of teenage frustration and Bruce's perverted fantasies.


End file.
